"He ought to be content with less of his theatres and his operas and supper-parties if he will read and write so furiously. A young fellow can't combine the lives of a man of study and a man of leisure without stealing too many hours from his natural rest. But I talk in vain—talk you, Mr. Carnegie," said Christie with earnestness.
"A man must work, and work hard, now-a-days, if he means to do or be anything," said Harry defiantly.
"It is the pace that kills," said the doctor. "The mischief is, that you ardent young fellows never know when to stop. And in public life, my lad, there is many a one comes to acknowledge that he has made more haste than good speed."
Harry sank back in his chair with laughing resignation; it was too bad, he said, to talk of him to his face so dismally. Bessie Fairfax was looking at him, her eyebrows raised, and fancying she saw a change; he was certainly not so brown as he used to be, nor so buoyant, nor so animated. But it would have perplexed her to define what the change she fancied was. Conscious of her observation, Harry dissembled a minute, then pushed back his chair, and invited her to come away to the old sitting-room, where the evening sun shone. No one offered to follow them; they were permitted to go alone.
The sitting-room looked a trifle more dilapidated, but was otherwise unaltered, and was Harry's own room still, by the books, pens, ink, and paper on the table. Being by themselves, silence ensued. Bessie sadly wondered whether anything was really going wrong with her beloved Harry, and he knew that she was wondering. Then she remembered what young Christie had said at Castlemount of his being occasionally short of money, and would have liked to ask. But when she had reflected a moment she did not dare. Their boy-and-girl days, their days of plain, outspoken confidence, were for ever past. That one year of absence spent by him in London, by her at Abbotsmead, had insensibly matured the worldly knowledge of both, and without a word spoken each recognized the other's position, but without diminution of their ancient kindness.
This recognition, and certain possible, even probable, results had been anticipated before Bessie was suffered to come into the Forest. Lady Angleby had said to Mr. Fairfax: "Entrust her to Lady Latimer for a short while. Granting her humble friends all the virtues that humanity adorns itself with, they must want some of the social graces. Those people always dispense more or less with politeness in their familiar intercourse. Now, Cecil is exquisitely polite, and Miss Fairfax has a fine, delicate feeling. She cannot but make comparisons and draw conclusions. Solid worth apart, the charm of manner is with us. I shall expect decisive consequences from this visit."
What Bessie actually discerned was that all the old tenderness that had blessed her childhood, and that gives the true sensitive touch, was still abiding: father, mother, Harry—dearest of all who were most dear to her—had not lost one whit of it. And judged by the eye, where love looked out, Harry's great frame, well knit and suppled by athletic sports, had a dignity, and his irregular features a beauty, that pleased her better than dainty, high-bred elegance. He had to push his way over the obstacles of poverty and obscure birth, and she was a young lady of family and fortune, but she looked up to him with as meek a humility as ever she had done when they were friends and comrades together, before her vicissitudes began and her exalted kinsfolk reclaimed her. Woldshire had not acquainted her with his equal. All the world never would.
Their conversation was opened at last with a surprised smile at finding themselves where they were—in the bare sitting-room at Brook, with the western light shining on them through the vine-trellised lattices after four years of growth and experience. How often had Bessie made a picture in her day-dreams of their next meeting here since she went away! In this hour, in this instant, love was new-born in both their hearts. They saw it, each in the other's eyes—heard it, each in the other's voice. Tears came with Bessie's sudden smile. She trembled and sighed and laughed, and said she did not know why she was so foolish. Harry was foolish too as he made her some indistinct plea about being so glad. And a red spot burned on his own cheek as he dwelt on her loveliness. Once more they were silent, then both at once began to talk of people and things indifferent, coming gradually round to what concerned themselves.
Harry Musgrave spoke of his friend Christie and his profession relatively to his own: "Christie has distinguished himself already. There are houses in London where the hostess has a pride in bringing forward young talent. Christie got the entrée of one of the best at the beginning of his career, and is quite a favorite. His gentleness is better than conventional polish, but he has taken that well too. He is a generous little fellow, and deserves the good luck that has befallen him. His honors are budding betimes. That is the joy of an artistic life—you work, but it is amongst flowers. Christie will be famous before he is thirty, and he is easy in his circumstances now: he will never be more, never rich; he is too open-handed for that. But I shall have years and years to toil and wait," Harry concluded with a melancholy, humorous fall in his voice, half mocking at himself and half pathetic, and the same was his countenance.
All the more earnestly did Bessie brighten: "You knew that, Harry, when you chose the law. But if you work amongst bookworms and cobwebs, don't you play in the sunshine?"